


Do You Feel Like a Young God?

by sanssssastark



Series: We're Gonna Be Legends [1]
Category: Julie and The Phantoms (TV 2020)
Genre: Aged - Up Characters, Anti-Bobby...Trevor...Whatever, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, The Boys Are Alive - AU, angsty sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:47:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29796252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanssssastark/pseuds/sanssssastark
Summary: When Luke shows up at Julie's apartment door at three in the morning with a bottle of Jack Daniels in his fist, she knows somethings wrong, very wrong. He's been betrayed by someone they trusted, everything he's worked for since he was fourteen years old is slipping away from him and there's only one person in the world he needs. Julie knows that. She's always known what he needs and tonight, he needs her.
Relationships: Julie Molina/Luke Patterson
Series: We're Gonna Be Legends [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2193309
Comments: 33
Kudos: 199





	Do You Feel Like a Young God?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pearlcaddy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearlcaddy/gifts), [xxPrettyLittleTimeBombxx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxPrettyLittleTimeBombxx/gifts), [daniwithoutane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daniwithoutane/gifts), [MamiRugbee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MamiRugbee/gifts).



> This is entirely the fault of Pearlcaddy, xxPrettyLittleTimeBombxx, daniwithoutane and MamiRugbee, my Angry Flower Squad. They sent me into a Bobby/Trevor Wilson rage spiral which then, of course, made a little plot bunny appear in my head. As usual, everyone is alive in my fics and born around the same time because I cannot handle the ghost of in all. 
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy the angry, angsty, but also almost soft because I'm me, Jukebox smut.
> 
> Also, I very much recommend listening to Young God by Halsey as you read. Just saying.

Her body is awake before her mind, jolting out of a dead sleep just in time to hear a repeat of what had cut so deeply into her consciousness that it had her sitting up straight in bed. 

Her apartment door being pounded on once, twice and again. Julie glances at her phone. It’s three in the morning. 

No missed calls. 

No texts. 

Not an emergency. 

Grabbing the sweater she tossed over the end of the bed before she climbed under the covers, she pulls it on and pads out of her bedroom and toward the front door as another round of pounding echoes into the quiet of the early morning air.

Almost everyone she knows would call or text before just showing up. It’s what people do, especially in the middle of the fucking night. 

Not Luke though. Luke knows he can show up whenever he needs to. Whenever he wants to. He doesn’t do this though. Not since that last fight with his parents when he told them he wasn’t going back to college, that music couldn’t wait.

He’d showed up at her dad’s house that night and she’d tried to curl her body around his, wrap him in her arms and let him bury his head in the space under her chin, body shuddering with dry sobs after all the tears had run out.

They’ve come so far since then. A successful EP, a local following that packs their gigs around LA, working the festival circuit. There’s buzz. A lot of it. A few managers are sniffing around, waiting to see what they do next. They work with purpose with an undercurrent of urgency and it’s all finally coming together. An LP dropping this summer will be the thing that launches them from up and coming to that next level. She can feel it. The music they’re making now, the blend of her blues-y style and Luke’s rock foundations, it’s wild how it all just slides together into perfect harmony. It shouldn’t work. People have tried it before, to recapture rock’s origins with an R&B slant at the core. It’s rare they get it right. Julie knows they have though. No one is making music with their sound and it’s so fucking good she can’t wait to share it with the world. Her sound. Luke’s sound. They were meant to bind together, just like their souls. 

She’s known him since she was twelve years old. He was slightly pudgy eighth grader who told Carrie Wilson to _shut the fuck up, she’s a better singer than you_ after Julie was left out of Dirty Candi's routine in the talent show and Carrie was ragging on her for signing up as a solo act. Then he was fourteen and had grown so much in a year that every time she saw him he was either scarfing down a burrito or hunting for another one with a guitar slung over his back. At sixteen he’d awkwardly pressed his mouth against hers while they stood under the mistletoe Reggie hung from the archway between the foyer and living room. At seventeen they’d fumbled along with their hands and their mouths until those weren't enough. 

They pretend they’re going slow, making sure it’s right, mostly for everyone else. She has her own place. He lives with the guys. They spend most holidays with her family. They go to his parents house for Mother's Day.

But they’ve whispered promises to each other in the dark, bodies sated and minds clear that after the LP drops and everything they’ve worked for finally comes to fruition, no more pretending. It’s time for the rest of the world to understand that they’re it for each other. Always have been.

When she pulls open her front door, he’s leaning on the wall of her apartment hallway, head down, staring at the worn carpet. He’s so still it’s unnerving. Terrifying even. Luke is _never_ still. Somethings wrong.

“Luke?” she asks and he looks up at her, his eyes burning, jaw clenched, breath controlled, but heavy. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, the words rasping harshly out of his lungs while he pushes up off the wall and marching into her apartment. There’s a bottle of Jack hanging from one hand, unopened.

Okay, something’s _really_ wrong. 

Julie bites her lip and pulls her sweater tighter around her. 

“Yeah, what’s going on?” she asks, gently as he moves into her tiny living room. He stops at the couch, but doesn’t sit down, just spins on the toe of his Vans and stares at her. 

“Bobby. Fucking Bobby.”

“Bobby Wilson?”

Luke laughs, a hollow sound from the back of his throat. “He’s going by _Trevor_ now.”

The way he says the name, it makes her pause. Is that supposed to mean something to her?

“Bobby changed his name and you thought it would be a good idea to come tell me that at three in the morning with some whisky to celebrate?” 

“Google it,” is all he says, moving to the bar cart she set up in the corner of her living room because it made her feel like a grown up to have a bunch of bottles of alcohol out in the open in her apartment, where anyone could see. She even bought actual glasses, nice ones, and Luke is taking advantage of that, ripping open the bottle of Jack and pouring it with a heavy hand while she types out Trevor Wilson in her phone’s search bar.

Bobby’s face stares back at her, serious in a black and white photo with the words Trevor Wilson painted at the bottom like...like it’s an album cover.

The first link result is….

“Shit.”

“ _Rolling_ Fucking _Stone_ ,” Luke sings walking toward her, downing his glass in one long sip before offering her the other glass. She shakes her head and he shrugs before emptying that one into the back of his throat too. “Trevor Wilson is a rock force to be reckoned with in his self-titled debut LP. His guitar sings with the soul of Clapton and the innovation of Townshend and his genius lyrics find that sweet spot reserved only for those destined to become the voice of a new rock generation.”

“You’ve read it,” she says, as the words on her screen match his exactly. “You memorized it. So Bobby released an album. Good for him. It’s what he wanted.”

“Keep reading, Jules. Read the track list.”

Her eyes scan the article to the bottom and then...oh.

_My Name is Luke_

_Lakeside Reflections_

_Long Weekend_

_Get Lost_

_Late Last Night_

There are some other tracks listed, none she recognizes, but those first five songs she knows better than almost anyone. They’re five of _Luke’s_ songs. Songs he’d poured his soul into. Songs they planned to release on their own LP in a few months. 

“This is…” Julie starts, but Luke finishes.

“ _Unbelievable_ .” he shouts, twisting his body around to face her. “He just gets to take the credit for my music. My music, Julie. Our music. He just fucking took it and how the fuck did he think he was going to get away with it. He fucking _stole_ from me, from us.” 

Julie puts her phone down and then reaches out to take the tumblers from him, setting them aside.

“Luke,” she starts to say.

“Argh!” he lets out a frustrated growl and spins away, further into her living room. “And they called him a fucking genius!” 

His body is held taut and poised to spring, his chin buried in his chest that’s rising and falling with every shallow breath he takes. 

She wants to tell him that they’ll fight it and that they’ll win, but she knows that’s bullshit because Bobby...Trevor...whatever...his parents have serious money. The kind that could keep a copyright suit tied up for years. They’d drown under legal fees. This was over before they even knew it began. It was over the moment Bobby walked out of the studio six months ago because he couldn’t _vibe with their sound anymore._

Fuck that douchebag. 

Julie exhales and makes a decision, taking a step closer to him and then another. “They called _you_ a genius. They said _you_ have the soul of Clapton and the innovation of Townshend.” 

Luke looks up at her, eyes blazing as she approaches cautiously, her hands out in front of her, like you might ease toward an injured animal. She knows Luke would never hurt her. He’d hurl himself off the nearest building first, but she’s not sure where he is right now, in his own head. 

He doesn't move, frozen on the spot as she steps into his space, so close his breath ghosts over her forehead. 

“ _You_ are the voice of a new rock generation,” she whispers, holding his eyes with hers, pouring every ounce of belief she has in him and his music and their love into her words, “and we’re going to show that to the world.” 

Reaching up, she puts a hand over his heart and presses there, hard before closing the fabric into a fist and pulling him down to her in a bruising kiss. She takes his lower lip between hers and tugs, bending back as he leans into it, wrapping his arms around her fully, hauling her up against his chest. Her teeth gently nip him as he tries to pull back and his answering groan vibrates from his chest into hers. 

“Julie,” he mutters when he finally pulls back for a breath.

“I’ve got you,” she answers, pressing her body against his, keeping him close. “Whatever you need, I’m here.”

He shifts even further back, his eyes searching hers as his jaw tenses. “I…” he starts, but then stops, lifting a shaking hand to her mouth, his thumb brushing softly against her swollen lower lip. “I...need…” he hesitates again, like he can’t say it out loud, but his eyes are molten, the usual bright sea glass a thin gray storm around his pupils blown wide and black. 

She knows what he needs, can feel it in the tension of his arms, the stillness of his body, he’s holding back, the way he used to when everything between them was new and he was afraid he could break her with a simple touch. 

“Luke,” she says, pushing up onto the tips of her toes to press his mouth against his ear, “fuck me.” 

A grumbling growl rips from his throat and that’s all it takes. He hauls her up against him, fingers pressing into the soft skin of her thighs as he buries his head against her neck, his mouth immediately finding her pulse point and latching his mouth to the spot as he walks them across her living room and only stumbling a bit when her hands sift into his hair and then tug firmly on the ends just the way he likes.

“Fuck, Julie,” he mutters against the bruise she knows he’s made at her throat and he turns, instead of moving to her bedroom, he takes a shortcut to the nearest flat surface, her kitchen table.

He deposits her there and she can finally look at him again. His brows are furrowed and his jaw is clenched, as he gazes down at her. He still hasn’t let go. Julie shrugs out of her sweater and throws it aside. She hasn’t worn anything to bed other than his shirts for years and tonight it’s his Screams from the Attic t-shirt, the arm holes he cut out back when they were in high school frayed and the cotton soft against her skin. 

“Luke,” she says and his eyes snap up to hers, still burning, his demons simmering beneath the surface. 

He doesn’t answer, not with words, he only nods and grabs at the bottom of the shirt before yanking it over her head and tossing it back over his shoulder and then drawing her to the very edge of the table with a firm grip on her ass, he falls to his knees in front of her. His shoulders press her legs apart and he buries his face against her, diving straight in.

Julie falls back on her elbows at the sudden, wild touch of his mouth and his tongue. Distantly, her mind reels that _this_ is what he wants right now, in this moment, with fire coursing through his body. 

“Yes, I fucking do,” he growls out against skin suddenly so sensitive that she sees tiny sparks behind her eyes. Apparently she said that last part out loud. She wants to look at him, see expression into his eyes while his rage spills over into his worship of her body. 

But she can’t, she’s already shaking as his fingers work her over, joining his mouth in drawing a different sort of melody from her throat and then finally her voice catches against the first sound of his name. She tries to jolt against him, but his hand is tight against her hip, holding her in place as he keeps at it, his mouth closing over her clit and giving a not-so-gentle tug.

“Luke,” his name spills from her tongue, half-screamed as she falls fully back on to the table, knocking her head against the wood. She doesn’t care. He works her down from the high and she’s still feeling the aftershocks when he stands and swipes the back of his hand over his mouth. 

The tension in his jaw is still there, the rage hasn’t abated and Julie can’t take it. On shaking legs, she stands, nudging him with her hips away from the table before reaching for the string of the sweatpants he’d thrown on before coming over here. As she does, he pulls his shirt up and over his head. 

“Luke,” she says, pulling his eyes back to hers as his sweatpants slide down over his hips and he kicks them away. There’s nothing else to say, so she turns her back on him and presses her ass up against him, his cock hot and heavy as she slides against it.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he grinds out. “Julie I can’t be…I need to…”

“I know,” she answers as his hands glide up over her rib cage to palm her breasts, “I want you to.” 

His body surges into her, a hand running to her back as he bends her over the kitchen table, the angle perfect as his hips press her into the cool surface and then without another ounce of hesitation, he slides inside of her, snapping his hips forward before drawing back slowly his hand twisting into her curls, pulling her head back as he moves into her again.

She can’t contain the deep moan that escapes and she can practically feel his smirk as he leans forward. “You love me inside of you, huh? First you scream my name and then you moan like that.”

His voice sends another jolt through her as he sets a rhythm, hard and fast, his hands finding purchase against her hips, the angle deep and hitting just the right spot inside of her as he loses himself in her. 

This is what she wants, what she knows he needs. To let go. To take all that anger and rage and resentment and hurt from him. Sometimes that’s who they are for each other because they’re everything the other needs. She knows she’ll feel this tomorrow. He’s never this rough, never this wild. She’ll have finger shaped bruises on her thighs, on the flare of her hips on the curve of her ass, at her neck, on her collarbone. She doesn't care. She wants everything he can give and more.

His left hand gives her ass a gentle slap, so incongruous with everything else that’s happened tonight it startles her more than a sharper strike would have, until that hand slides around and the calluses earned from more than a decade of guitar strings find their target. 

“Come on, Jules,” he urges her when she lets out a breathy groan, “take me with you.” He presses forward again, his cock stretching her at just the right angle and her mind glows blissfully blank, her body a strange foreign thing that she’s also hyper aware of, her breasts heavy against the wood of the table, her skin prickles, her legs shake unable to hold her weight and she slides back toward him, but he’s there, holding her as he loses his rhythm.

“Yes,” she hears herself calling distantly, “please, Luke.”

“Don’t have to beg, sweetheart,” he mutters, moving harder and faster, as she falls into it again, her toes curling against the cool floor, their bodies sliding together and then he’s gone, collapsing against her, pulsing inside of her. 

For a long moment, they just breathe together, his chest pressed to her back, his mouth at her shoulder, gentle as he runs his nose against the line of her neck.

When he pulls back, she ignores the mess and how her legs still feel like they won’t quite hold her up to spin and fall against his chest, pressing a kiss against his sternum. 

He wraps his arms around her, holding her tight.

“You gonna be okay?” she murmurs against his skin, holding on as tightly as he is, feeling the beat of his heart against her ear.

“As long as I have this, as long as I have you,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, tightening the embrace. “Julie?”

His voice is soft, young, like she hasn't heard in years. Vulnerable. A side to him almost no one ever sees.

She pulls away, trailing her hands down the chorded muscles of forearms as she goes, before linking their fingers together and leading him toward the bedroom door they never made it to. “Come on. Let’s sleep. Then tomorrow…” she trails off, as he follows behind her.

“Tomorrow?” he asks when she pulls him into her bed, curling around him and holding on tight.

“Tomorrow we write a song about _tonight_ that sends Bobby Wilson home without the Best New Artist Grammy and he’ll have to live the rest of his life knowing he couldn’t beat you even with your own work.”

“ _Our_ work,” he mumbles as his breathing evens out and his body finally relaxes and with it so does hers

He’s going to be okay. 

They’re going to be okay. 

And Trevor Wilson? 

He’s going to be sorry.

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
